Act 1 - Scene 3
London. The palace.
Enter the KING, NORTHUMBERLAND, WORCESTER, HOTSPUR, SIR WALTER BLUNT, with others
KING HENRY IV
My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities,
And you have found me; for
You tread upon my patience: but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to
be fear'd, than my condition;
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that
title of respect
Which the proud soul ne'er pays but to the proud.
EARL OF WORCESTER
Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it;
And that same
greatness too which our own hands
Have holp to make so portly.
KING HENRY IV
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye:
O, sir, your presence is too
bold and peremptory,
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
good leave to leave us: when we need
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.
You were about to speak.
Yea, my good lord.
Those prisoners in your highness' name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied
As is deliver'd to your majesty:
Either envy, therefore,
Is guilty of this fault and not my son.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage
and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
was perfumed like a milliner;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and
He gave his nose and took't away again;
Who therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in
snuff; and still he smiled and talk'd,
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
holiday and lady terms
He question'd me; amongst the rest, demanded
My prisoners in your majesty's
I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief
and my impatience,
Answer'd neglectingly I know not what,
He should or he should not; for he made me
To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman
Of guns and
drums and wounds, God save the mark!
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth
for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villanous salt-petre should be digg'd
the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd
So cowardly; and but for
these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
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